Definition of a Date
by newgirl87
Summary: If you give a Carson your hand to hold, he's going to ask for a glass of milk. No, wait. If you give a Carson your hand to hold and he catches you with another man, he's going to ask for a glass of milk. No, ugh, *sigh*, just read it. [post-Series 4 - pre-Series 5] [ONE SHOT]


_A/N: The characters are from the show and therefore not mine._

 _Except Bertie Boyd._

 _And Mr. Goodwin._

 _Oh, and Patrick Smith._

 _You get the idea._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

 **[One Week After Brighton/Series 4 Christmas Special]**

 **London, July, 1923**

London whizzed around him. Groups of foreigners and families trudged up and down the stairs of the National Gallery. It was her laugh he heard first. It was her laugh that led him to search for her, after having missed her in the morning. Carson scanned the crowds for her hat.

He found Mrs. Hughes standing at the bottom of the stairs, a straight line from himself. With her was a man.

The man stood with his arm curled so Mrs. Hughes could hold tightly to his elbow. He was a tall man, lanky but strong, with an air of wistful decorum. Thick locks of grey and brown adorned his head, perfectly manicured, a picture of grace.

The man leaned down and planted an immodest kiss upon Mrs. Hughes' cheek. She blushed, playfully, painfully slowly, batting the man's arm, though she still had not let go of his elbow. Her eyes gleamed in the evening sun.

It was indeed her, as Carson heard her unmistakable voice carry upon the wind, "Bertie! We'll have none of that."

"You're not going to slap me again, are you?" the man chuckled.

"Only if you give me reason to," she squeezed his arm.

"I thought you were a modern woman, Elsie." The man replied.

"I suppose I've a few modern views," she responded, a laugh in the back of her throat, "but I'm afraid it's not easy to learn new tricks at my age."

The man whispered something in her ear and she slapped his arm again. Then the man kissed her cheek again, jumping out of her reach and shouting a goodbye. She waved him off.

Carson watched the man walk, no, saunter, away.

He didn't know when Mrs. Hughes spotted him, but he jumped when he heard her, "Oh! Mr. Carson!"

The grin that the man had left on her face continued as she looked up to him. Carson found he could not return her smile. Instead, he smoothed out his jacket and tugged at the end of it. He walked the last few steps to meet her at the pavement. He took care to step delicately, as though he were carrying the perfect glass of brandy for the Dowager Countess.

"Mrs. Hughes," His voice constricted. He cleared his throat, again staring down the way Bertie had disappeared to. As usual, whenever it concerned her, the words that flew through his mind flew out his mouth, "He was rather familiar."

Mrs. Hughes' eyes went wide. Looking away she nodded, "Familiar. Yes, well, Mr. Boyd and I have known one another since we were wee babes in bonnets."

Carson hummed his understanding.

Wee babes.

Familiarity through length of relationship.

Familiarity through familial ties.

This made sense.

But that wasn't what she had said. They were not family, that man and Mrs. Hughes. Carson clenched his jaw, forcing his lips into a thin line. He didn't want to say any more, didn't want to learn any more.

Mrs. Hughes offered another smile, "Were you just arriving? Or shall we walk back to the house together?"

Taking one last glance at the path Bertie had taken, disgust tightening in his chest, Carson said, "I'm not going to the house."

"No?"

"No."

He started walking. Anything to get away from her before more words tumbled from his mouth, before he got himself into trouble. Before he blurted something about a beach and a hand that was soft and cool to the touch. About promises that weren't promises.

She hurried alongside him worrying her lip. He remained silent. The path to Grantham House split with his plans. He stalled as he reached the fork. More words he pinched back. He took a deep breath.

"I go that way." He said, pointing lamely.

"I see." She frowned, "You're going to miss out on Mrs. Patemore's Asparagus Casserole."

"I'm not terribly fond of asparagus." He reminded. His stomach dropped at the unfortunate realization that she, of all people, had forgotten such an important detail.

She fiddled with her bag and sighed, "Yes, I suppose that's why Mrs. Patemore's making it tonight, seeing as you won't be there."

"Indeed." He frowned inwardly. She would never, had never, seen how much she could easily upset him. He wondered if he ever upset her. Certainly not in that way, he presumed.

They stood there. People jostled around them as the busy London streets reminded him that his troubles were one in a few million. If it weren't for the bustle of the roads, he might have been forced to look at her.

Mrs. Hughes started, "I had planned to stay out later as well, but Mr. Boyd was needed back earlier than expected."

 _Mr. Boyd_. Oh yes, that was probably why he couldn't find her earlier, couldn't find her to ask her about joining himself to visit the National Gallery. She had been with _Mr. Boyd_ all afternoon.

She continued, "It's a bit of a pity. I rarely have the chance to see London."

He coughed, his eyes roaming the sidewalk opposite them. So Mr. Boyd was going to show her London? In the middle of the aches and pains flitting about in his stomach, Carson felt an added burning sensation as he wondered why on Earth she was telling him this.

She finished, "Well, I suppose I'll see you when you return to the house."

He watched her walk away. Of all the emotions vying for his attention, sadness won out in the end. So it was then that the words he had meant to say since the morning fell from his tongue.

"You could come if you like. With me."

His voice stalled her. She turned to face him.

Shoulders rolled back, Carson held his head high trying desperately to make it look as though his words had been a mere afterthought. She wouldn't see through him - no, he thought, she still didn't know he loved her and if she was as blind as all that (thank god), then she certainly didn't know what it had cost him to ask her.

She bit back a smile, "And where exactly is it you're going?"

"Here and there." He relaxed his posture slightly, then added, "Dinner is first."

Walking up to him, she kept her eyes on the cars parked on the road. Her lips played with themselves until she broke out into a smile, "I suppose I am a bit hungry."

He nodded. A familiar tension took over his body as he walked side by side with Mrs. Hughes following the path away from Grantham House. The noise of the people began to disappear and a calmness asserted itself over the small street they walked along.

"I'm rather fond of my London." He said.

She laughed, "Oh, it's yours is it?"

"I didn't mean it quite like that," he nearly bumped into her as he bowed down to speak, "I mean the London I've come to know. There are many different Londons, Mrs. Hughes, and no two person's are quite alike."

"You mean Dickens has a London and Mr. Doyle has a London." She said.

Carson nodded, saying, "That's one way of putting it. The list could go on, really. For every Londoner there is a different London."

"'On a fools head and there is London Town.'" Mrs. Hughes quoted.

Carson grinned, "Yes, but Lord Byron's London concerned the shipping."

"And what does your London concern?" She asked, looking up.

"The food."

She followed easily as Carson walked his familiar path. A slight mist of rain settled over their heads as they walked through a cloud.

After a while Mrs. Hughes said, "I'm excited to know your London."

He paused. They stood outside of a small park. A young man moved his ladder from one streetlamp to the next, lighting the gas as the sky overhead darkened.

Carson dared himself to respond, "I'm excited to show it to you."

* * *

They reached the restaurant, Bails and Stumps, just as the heavens broke open and poured buckets upon the city. Carson held his coat over their heads as they ran into the foyer. Her laughter stirred the waitstaff, who rushed to them and took their wet belongings.

A middle aged man with a plump belly and skinny arms greeted them, "Mr. Carson! We were wonderin' when you'd show up."

"Ah, Mr. Goodwin," Carson said, "It is a pleasure to return."

Mr. Goodwin raised his eyebrows, nodding to Mrs. Hughes as one of his staff helped her with her coat. "And is this here, finally, the great and grand Mrs. Hu-"

"Hughes. Mrs. Hughes." Carson said, willing his old friend to hold his tongue and hoping Mrs. Hughes hadn't been listening.

Whether she had heard Goodwin or not, she made no sign. Indeed, she accepted Mr. Goodwin's introduction gracefully and followed him to the table. Carson relaxed. He took in his favorite little restaurant, pleased to find it as it had always been. Dim lighting framed pictures of famous cricket matches. A dull glow of brown scattered about the place due to the excess of wood furnishings.

His favorite bottle of wine was placed on the middle of the table. The staff danced around them providing the most recent selection of hors d'oeuvres and canapes. The table, his usual, stood near the window and he watched Mrs. Hughes glance at the people rushing by in the rain. Fool, he thought. The number of times he had imagined her here with him and now she sat across from him in silent contentment and all he could think about was Mr. Boyd.

"You don't mean, Albert Boyd?" He asked, wincing as the words left his body. He took a bite to hide his worry.

She turned away from the window, startled, "Do you know him?

"Butler to Lord Harksham?" He continued.

"Yes."

He frowned at his plate, finding his hunger abating. He wondered if he could leave it there, move on to talking about the weather or the cricket match in the fall.

She ruined all that, however, when she asked, "How is it you know him?"

"I don't. I know Lord Harksham's valet, Mr. Harris." He sighed, "Do you know him too?"

"No, I've never met him." She said. Her face held a calculated look.

He began to wonder if he was on the other side of her plotting. He continued, "Mr. Harris always spoke very highly of Mr. Boyd _._ "

"Yes," she nodded, glancing at her plate, "he would."

Not for the first time, Carson found himself wavering between his intense trust in Mrs. Hughes and his own self-doubt. Head valets didn't always speak highly of their Butlers. Was she, Mrs. Hughes, comparing him, Carson, to Mr. Boyd? And if she was, did she find him, Carson, wanting?

"I was keen on him." She said, then added, "Mind you, that was some forty years ago."

He stared at her. His heart beat double time. In fact, he was fairly certain, if she added anything more to that, he would die right then and there. He almost wished for it. And yet he asked, "Am I to take it he _wasn't_ keen?"

"No, he wasn't." ( _Fool,_ he thought) She pursed her lips, "We were simply good friends- Are simply good friends."

Carson nodded. It occurred to him he hadn't really been eating, simply pushing the food around his plate. It also occurred to him that just because Mr. Boyd hadn't been keen then, did not mean he wasn't keen now. Carson took a bite, swallowed, "Old friends are often good friends."

She hummed her agreement, "If I'm being honest, I may owe Mr. Boyd quite a debt."

"And how's that?"

"He was the one who got me into service." She said, "If it weren't for him, I doubt I would be sitting here now with you."

"You're pleased then?"

She smiled, "Quite please, Mr. Carson."

He nodded and took a sip of wine. He wasn't quite sure what they were talking about anymore.

The main course arrived with a grand flair, fire and dumplings and a special tray to keep the sauce warm. They ate in silence. Every so often he would glance at her. And in turn, she would smile at him. Feeling slightly reassured, though not understanding why, Carson decided to enjoy their time alone together.

They spoke about odd household matters. She made a few jokes about Mrs. Levinson. He found himself smiling more, laughing more. It took the entire dinner before he realized this dinner they shared was their first meal alone.

* * *

It had stopped raining by the time they left the restaurant. A cool air blew across the streets. Mrs. Hughes cheeks looked rosy in the gaslight, though Carson couldn't tell if it was from the wine they'd drunk or the cooler temperature.

Mrs. Hughes asked, "Where are we going now? Not home?"

"Not just yet, if you don't mind," he replied, "there's two more stops on my list."

"You're very mysterious," she said.

The wine allowed him to follow his train of thought out loud, "Oh I wouldn't say that. You know, I must say that it occurs to me I know very little of your past, when you know so much of mine already."

"Do I?" She said, bumping into him, "Well, you know about Mr. Boyd now."

Ah, Bloody Mr. Boyd. Carson nodded and set his eyes on the street opposite.

"Yes, I suppose I do," he said, "and I am most certainly not asking for a list of suitors."

"It's not a very long list, I can tell you that."

More than one was already long for him - how many suitors made up a long list for her, he wondered. He shook his head, these were not the thoughts he wanted to be having. Nor had he any right to know.

"What about it?" He said, "Tell me something - a story perhaps? Unless you don't want to, of course. I won't press you."

"No, no, I don't mind," she smiled, "Let me think about it. It's not often I'm asked to tell a story of myself."

They walked in circles for a time. Carson purposefully took wrong turns leading them away from their next destination. He glanced down as a soft laugh escaped her.

"I am sorry, Mr. Carson," she said, "but this would be much easier if it weren't you who asked."

"Oh?"

"I'm afraid, all the stories I keep thinking of in some way involve you."

He couldn't tell if his eyes were seeing clearly, but it looked to him, almost, imperceptibly, that she was blushing. The confidence that had deflated out of him earlier came rushing back all at once. He felt like he was holding her hand again.

He chuckled, "Can you think of nothing B.C.?""

"Mr. Carson! I'm not _that_ old!"

His laughter echoed off the wall of buildings surrounding them, "That was not at all what I meant, Mrs. Hughes. Before Carson. B.C."

"I see," she nudged him with her elbow, "and I'll thank you not to compare yourself to our Lord and Savior. But never mind that now, I think I've got one."

"Let's hear it then."

She sighed, "I'm afraid it's not so much a story, as it is something I don't believe you know about me."

"Mrs. Hughes, you have me in the grips of anticipation."

"Alright, but don't laugh," she said, "you must promise me you won't laugh."

He nodded, "I promise I will not laugh."

"I won a poetry contest once."

His feet stopped moving so quickly he nearly fell over, "You what?"

"When I was eleven," she explained, "It was for school, but it was published in our counties' newspaper. Mind you, no girl was supposed to enter, but my friend Johnny Ruskin could barely write his name, let alone a poem, so I wrote it for him. My, my, Johnny Ruskin. It's funny how we remember certain things, isn't it?"

"And - do you remember it?" He asked

She smiled, "No. But I have got it written down somewhere. I could find it for you if you'd like?"

"Only if it's not too much trouble." he said, "I would be delighted to read it."

This times he knew his eyes were not misleading him. She was, in fact, blushing.

* * *

They walked into the ice cream parlour and Mrs. Hughes drew her hand to her mouth. Carson knew she was hiding a rather large smile.

The man behind the counter exclaimed, "Mrs. Hughes!"

The two rushed towards one another, grasping hands. The other customer's watched on. Mrs. Hughes eyes took in the man, while the man held her hands and squeezed her arm.

"Patrick Smith!" said Mrs. Hughes.

"This is a surprise!" said Patrick.

Patrick Smith had left Downton to make room for Thomas Barrow as first footman. Carson still regretted this.

Patrick, a favorite of the staff, was a short man who's heart broke every time he set eyes on a girl. The last role of heart breaker fell to head-house maid Anna Smith, and Patrick left Downton to join the army rather than risk offending her twice.

Such a decision Carson had felt quite noble at the time - and had understood all too well.

Patrick now stood before his old housekeeper and Butler, one-legged, missing a tooth, still as stocky as ever.

Mrs. Hughes followed Patrick as they took a seat at Carson's usual table. Yelling for someone to run the register, Patrick rushed to get their ice cream orders then joined his former bosses.

As the three settled in, Carson took up the story-telling game again. He explained how he'd come across Patrick's shop a few years back. How he promised to keep quiet - Patrick felt shamed by his missing limb: The war had been kind to him. Diabetes had not.

Mrs. Hughes listened with rapt attention as Patrick detailed his life since leaving Downton. The younger man wasn't much of a writer and was thus one of the few of their charges to leave without keeping in any contact with the housekeeper.

Carson ate his ice cream while the two caught up. Patrick had kindly offered their dessert as 'on the house'. Gratitude swelled in Carson that Patrick didn't mind him bringing Mrs. Hughes. In fact, Patrick insisted they come back.

It was Mrs. Hughes who answered, "Oh we'll be back, you needn't worry about that."

In lieu of singing, Carson hummed as they exited, he found it impossible not to.

* * *

She teased him for his humming.

She teased him for going to the same two places every season - so very him, keeping a tradition.

And she especially teased him when she discovered his last stop on his yearly outing was none other than Buckingham Palace.

He smiled patiently at her teasing. Long ago he learned that when Mrs. Hughes teased somebody it meant she placed them in high esteem. And really, she could say anything to him and he would be happy just to be in her presence.

So long as it had nothing to do with prostitutes.

Or declining standards.

Or forcing him to go to one of those ghastly town fairs.

They stood at the gates trying to see the facade clearly. She stood close. If she were any closer they would be touching. As it was, the fabric of their coats touched. He shivered at their proximity. No, he realized, he was shaking.

Which only served to bring them closer.

"But surely you'd rather see it in the daylight?" She was saying.

He hummed a response, then noticed she was looking at him earnestly, "I've seen it many times, Mrs. Hughes. I visit to pay my respects to the King."

She stood on her tip toes as somehow this gave her a better view. This also meant her face was closer to him than he was used to. Could he kiss her cheek, like Mr. Boyd? Were they long time companions enough for such a thing?

No.

He swallowed and looked back across the large stone filled yard, not wondering how soft her cheek would be under his lips, no not at all. The guards stood still, almost statue like. They inspired in him a resolution to keep himself to himself. Mrs. Hughes deserved his respect more than anything. He would not defile their years of friendship because he couldn't keep his carnal instincts to himself. He stood straighter.

She lowered her feet to stand normally. The result had her leaning against him - almost, but he could feel the heat from her back. Some horrible part of him kept him absolutely still, the impropriety of it all stung.

"When I'm old and married forty years, I hope I'm still as happy as those two are."

The voice rang out in the darkness. Carson heard Mrs. Hughes' quick intake of breath. Carson himself found his lungs had stopped working. He wondered, if that woman hadn't spoken, perhaps he would have stayed standing still waiting for Mrs. Hughes to truly lean into him. But with the confirmation that they were behaving much too familiar for comfort, Carson took a step back.

"Shall we return to the house?" He asked.

She nodded, adding hastily, "It is getting rather late."

* * *

The backdoor to Grantham House led to a small passage just off the kitchen. It was here one could shake of their coat and dust off their shoes. It was also here that one could listen in on anything in the kitchen, seeing as no one could see into the passage until turning the corner from the kitchen. As it was, Carson found this not entirely to his advantage as he and Mrs. Hughes returned home.

"But surely there must be some romantic intention," Moseley's voice carried, "for it to be considered a date."

"Mr. Levinson says any time spent between a man and a woman is a date," Mr. Slate's voice followed.

Mr. Barrow's voice cut in, "Then we've all been dating the maids. Best not let Mrs. Hughes find out."

"No, no, what Mr. Levinson means is that men and women can't be friends - so if they go out together, then it's a date." Mr. Slate explained.

Carson felt, more than saw, Mrs. Hughes tense. They stood together in the passage, pulling their coats off. It was small enough that one and a half people might feel comfortable - with the two of them, they had touched more in the last few seconds than the entire time she had been at Grantham House.

Carson's mind tore in two: on one hand he wanted to put a stop to the lurid conversation his footmen were having, on the other hand he wanted to know whether or not he had just, though unintentionally, gone on a date with Mrs. Hughes.

"By definition though," said Moseley, "a date is a romantic liaison. If I happened to walk with Mrs. Patmore -"

"Mrs. Patmore doesn't count." Mr. Barrow said.

"Fine then, If I happened to walk with Miss Baxter -"

"I think it ought to include a kiss," said Mr. Barrow, "If there isn't a kiss at the end, it's not a date."

"I see." said Moseley.

"Mr. Levinson says a date could be anything, but most likely it's dinner, dessert, and a show." Mr. Slate continued, "or a picnic."

Carson wasn't sure why, but neither he nor Mrs. Hughes had moved from the passageway even though both had finished with their coats. He glanced sideways at her. She appeared to be waiting for something.

"Well," Moseley sighed, "but why couldn't it be dinner and dessert? Or a walk to see a statue or garden or something?"

"Nowadays it's got to include a kiss," insisted Mr. Barrow, "Don't turn a date into something anybody could do with anybody -"

Mrs. Hughes swiftly moved from Carson's side. He barely had time to notice she had moved when he heard her speak.

"Good evening, what are we all going on about?" She asked pleasantly.

Carson smiled, that was his cobra in there taunting her mice. He joined her side to watch it all unfold. And be there for her, of course, should she need it.

"Just going over the next days rotation, Mrs. Hughes," lied Mr. Barrow.

Mrs. Patmore chose that moment to walk in. When she spotted the housekeeper and butler she said, "And where in heaven's blazes have you two been?"

Mrs. Hughes smiled eerily bright, "We were on a date."

The air stood still. Carson found breathing difficult. He looked everywhere except Mrs. Hughes, trying desperately to keep his mask of calm on straight.

Mr. Slate asked, "Were you really?"

Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes.

"Mr. Barrow I am shocked that you should let such a conversation go on. You, of all people, should know better. And _g_ _oing over the rotations_." Mrs. Hughes spat, Mr. Slate looked thoroughly ashamed, Mr. Barrow's jaw clenched, Mrs. Hughes continued, "I dare say Mr. Carson will have a few things to go over with all of you in the morning. Now get to bed, at once!"

The men practically ran up the stairs. Carson found the breath that had left him and sighed. "That was - that was well handled, Mrs. Hughes, if you don't mind my saying so."

"I don't mind." She smiled, "I'll bid you goodnight, Mrs. Patmore. Mr. Carson."

The cook merely nodded. She watched the housekeeper walk from the back of the kitchen to the stairs in the hallway. Mrs. Patmore turned to Carson when Mrs. Hughes was out of sight.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Patmore." He said, moving quickly through the kitchen. The last thing he wanted was a conversation with the cook.

"Goodnight, Mr. Carson."

He sighed as he reached the top of the stairs. His room and bed beckoned, but he knew no sleep would come tonight. _Romantic liaison_. That could mean _anything_.

THE END

* * *

 _Reviews always appreciated!_


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